


Another Sunday Afternoon

by Whilenotwriting



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Family Dinners, Fic on fic, Knit fic, meet the in-laws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:45:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whilenotwriting/pseuds/Whilenotwriting
Summary: After the unfortunate incident with the lipstick on his shirt collar Jack can no longer avoid introducing Phryne to his parents.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heavyheadedgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavyheadedgal/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Sunday Afternoon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005807) by [Heavyheadedgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavyheadedgal/pseuds/Heavyheadedgal). 



> Heavyheadedgal wrote the original knitfic in this fandom - the excellent and very funny A Sunday Afternoon. In honor of her upcoming birthday I've written a continuation. I hope she'll forgive me for it.
> 
> (And go read her fic first. GO READ IT NOW!!!)
> 
> Jasbo, Fire_Sign and TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy have all been beta'ing and helped me with the challenges of the English language - I am very grateful ! (This Norwegian would never dare post anything without your help.)

There were worse things than a striped jumper, Jack thought as he walked through the gate to his parents’ garden, even one with orange involved. This, very possibly, could be one of them. Two steps ahead of him on the gravel path was the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher heading for the door to the Robinson household and her first dinner with his mother and father. He’d imagined a first meeting between his mother and Phryne numerous times. In his mind he had never been able to come up with a scenario both credible and in his best interest. Phryne took orders from no one. His mother expected the world to bow to her. So far it had.

 

He’d insisted they’d take a taxi. “What is wrong with the Hispano?” Phryne had asked (and not quietly). On an afterthought she’d added, “You’re welcome to drive if _that’s_ what bothers you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your car. However, it suggests we’re coming from your place.”

“We _are_ coming from my place.”

 

“So, what are we then,” she asked while they waited for the cab. “Teenage sweethearts?” She smiled broadly before her features changed into mock innocence. “Maybe I can even hold your hand if your parents leave the room?”

“Possibly. I’m not sure you’ll risk it when you’ve actually met my mother,” he answered drily and only half joking.

“You are not suggesting we stick to the ‘just colleagues’ story?”

“They may not have your investigative skills, Miss Fisher, but I am quite sure lipstick on the inside of my collar is a clue they could not miss.”

“Very close colleagues?”

“Phryne!”

“The lipstick didn’t have to be mine? It could be from someone else?”

“Thank you, Miss Fisher, I am sure they will find that very reassuring.”

 

The door opened before they reached it. Jack’s mother, who obviously had been waiting for them, did not _look_ terrifying with her delicate frame and white hair neatly pinned in a bun. Jack knew from experience that looks could be deceptive. A tentative “Miss Fisher” and an enthusiastic “John!” met them.

“John?” Phryne repeated.

“Yes.” He kept the answer as short as possible. In a perfect world that would have been enough to move the conversation on to other topics. It didn’t bother him that his mother called him John. It was a perfectly acceptable name. It was how she kept going on about it he objected to. (This was not a perfect world.)

“So not _everybody_ calls you Jack.”

His mother huffed. “Unfortunately too many do.”

“Mum.” _Please, please, please. Leave it._

“What does your birth certificate say?” _God, no. This is not happening_.

 “Mum, really? Now?”

As his mother turned and signaled them in, for a second he thought the universe had turned benign. A second later Phryne took his hand, looked at him with eyes more innocent that that woman should be allowed to make and asked “What _does_ you birth certificate say, Jack?” (He really should have known.) “Thank you, Miss Fisher,” he replied, “I knew I could count on you.”

 

Dinner went surprisingly well. (The fact that Phryne had been calling him John throughout the entire meal he chose to ignore. There had even been a John Edward once, after she had learned what his birth certificate did in fact say.) They had talked as little as possible about their cases. “You know I can’t discuss my work” he’d said when his father started speculating about a recent high profile murder. Phryne had talked about her family without saying much, mentioning her aunt and ward much more than the parents left in England. “Oh, but don’t you miss them terribly,” his mother asked. “I manage,” was her short answer. Jack’s father enthusiastically recalled the latest concert his choir had contributed to “We’re only a small church choir, of course. It was quite a challenging undertaking,” and his mother filled him in on all recent marriages, births and deaths in the parish. “You do know there is a dedicated office for that sort of thing, Mum?” he couldn’t help saying. When they moved over to the living room Jack was exhausted and he suspected his father was too, but life-long training in keeping conversation topics light and Mary Robinson happy had paid off for both of them. In addition, Phryne could charm a stone if she wanted too and tonight she had given it her best.

When they rose to leave Phryne discovered the knitting basket. “Mrs. Robinson! Are you the woman behind Jack’s beautiful jumpers?” Jack could not remember ever having seen his mother blush, but there had to be a first for everything. He also knew, without a doubt, that whatever disaster he had feared would in fact not happen. Despite the short hair and daring clothes, the make-up and the utterly modern lifestyle Phryne had won his mother over. He wasn’t even surprised when his mother hugged him and whispered in his ear, “I like her.” Out loud, however, she said “I’ve finished the jumper. I’ll go find it.”

Jack couldn’t quite hear what his father muttered, but there was a “sorry” in there, and “no liquids allowed” and “you know how your mother is.”(The evening had, indeed, been too good to be true.)

“Now _that_ , Mrs Robinson, is a fashion statement if I ever saw one!” Phryne’s voice was pitched so high it was almost painful. His father suddenly got a nasty cough.

Out on the street, in safe distance from the house, Pryne started giggling, and once safely inside a cab she howled with laughter. “Jack?” she started when she was able to breathe normally. “I love you dearly, but if you ever show up at Wardlow wearing that jumper, taking it off is not enough. I will ask you to leave.”


End file.
